Turning Tables
by forthecoast
Summary: Jane always knew that when he killed Red John, things were going to change between him and Lisbon. What he didn't know was how. In the aftermath of Red John's death, nothing goes according to plan. Post-3x23/3x24. Jane/Lisbon.
1. prologue: under haunted skies

**Title:** Turning Tables  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Not it.  
><strong>Category:<strong> Jane/Lisbon  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> 3x23/3x24  
><strong>Timeline:<strong> Immediately following the S3 finale.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Jane always knew that when he killed Red John, things were going to change between him and Lisbon. What he didn't know was how. In the aftermath of Red John's death, nothing goes according to plan.

**Author's Note:** Let's forget that I'm coming a little late to the party and embrace the fact that I showed up at all. I've been planning this story basically since the night last year's season finale aired, but life got in my way and I am only getting a chance to work on it now. I did want to get the prologue up before the season premiere airs in the US tomorrow night, since I will most certainly be veering in a very different direction from the one the show takes. I've been avoiding spoilers for the express purpose of preventing them from influencing my plans for this fic.

I should take a moment to recognize the people who helped make this possible. First, **hardly loquacious** and **yaba**, for allowing me to bounce ideas off of them in that initial period of panic post-finale, when I needed to ramble at 3 am even though I knew I wasn't making much sense. And to **Afterglow04**, who very graciously saved my ass when I realized I needed to get this thing beta'd ASAP. She made this possible!

In case you're wondering where I've been and why I'm popping up again after so long: like I said, life. And a rather lengthy big bang that you should be on the lookout for (if you're interested, obviously) in about two weeks. Anyway, without further ado, I hope you enjoy! :)

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xxxxx

**prologue;  
><strong>under haunted skies**  
><strong>

xxxxx

_Close enough to start a war_  
><em>All that I have is on the floor<em>  
><em>God only knows what we're fighting for<em>  
><em>All that I say, you always say more<em>  
>-Adele, Turning Tables<p>

xxxxx

At the hospital, the doctors tell Lisbon that she's lucky. She isn't so sure.

They hook her up to IVs and dose her up with pain medication that slow her thoughts but barely touch her pain. When an orderly wheels her down the hall to X-Ray, she hears whispers of _"That's the cop, the one who got shot on the job. GSW to the shoulder. The bullet's still in there."_

She pretends not to notice.

Doctors and nurses file in and out of her room, each bustling about with a particular task: taking her vitals or administering medication or checking her wound. All Lisbon wants is a few minutes alone so she can call Cho or Hightower to find out what's going on back at the office.

O'Laughlin was the mole all along, and no one suspected. Hightower and Van Pelt's names both become additions to the ever-growing list of inadvertent Red John victims.

And Jane, she hasn't heard anything from him since she hung up to call the last number dialed on O'Laughlin's phone. She can't help but worry. She always worries about Jane.

"Jane," she whispers, her head falling back against her hospital bed. "Jane, where are you? What are you doing?"

Another nurse walks in at that exact moment. She's a short woman dressed in floral print scrubs, somewhat heavyset with graying hair, probably in her late 50's. Her name tag reads 'Karen' and she tosses around terms of endearment freely. She reminds Lisbon of a woman who used to work with her mother.

"You need something, honey?" Karen asks, busying herself with Lisbon's IV drip and making notes on her clipboard.

"Just my cell phone, if you don't mind." Her breathing is labored; the extra effort it takes to speak clearly triggers a shooting pain in her shoulder, radiating down her side.

Karen eyes her warily. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I have to," Lisbon nods insistently, which causes her to cough. "My team... I have to check on them."

"Shouldn't they be checking up on _you_?" Although still skeptical, Karen apparently decides not to agitate her patient - figuring that giving Lisbon her phone will be the lesser of two evils - and waits patiently while Lisbon dials.

Cho's phone goes straight to voicemail. Hightower's too. Rigsby's phone rings five times before it, too, instructs her to leave a message after the tone.

Lisbon doesn't even try Van Pelt; with her good arm, she throws her phone down on the bed in frustration.

"Don't you worry about them. They'll be fine," Karen soothes, her gentle voice a testament to her years of practice. "Why don't I turn the TV on to keep you company while you wait?"

She doesn't wait for a response, walking over to the counter and picking up the remote control. She flicks the power button and the black television screen springs to life.

"Here you go." She ducks behind the gurney and places the remote on Lisbon's uninjured side.

The local evening news is in full swing, and Lisbon, not one for the news as company after the day she's had, almost changes the channel before her eye catches the headline scrawled across the bottom of the screen.

_Red John dead? CBI Consultant shoots alleged serial killer in local mall._

"No," she breathes, blinking rapidly and hoping beyond hope that her mind (or whatever painkiller the doctors prescribed) is playing tricks on her.

The plan was never supposed to _work_. They were just supposed to find the mole, and then she was supposed to be there. She was supposed to stop him.

At least now she knows why no one picked up their phone.

Karen tuts quietly while checking Lisbon's vitals again.

"That poor dear," Karen says, almost more to herself than to Lisbon. "They say Red John killed his wife and daughter. I can't say I blame him, if he did do it."

Oh, he did it. He definitely did it. Of that, Lisbon has no doubt.

The news anchors are arguing Karen's point, one of them already lauding Patrick Jane as a hero and a calling for him to receive a medal. Lisbon feels sick to her stomach.

The nausea takes hold of her being, washing over her in waves. She hasn't eaten since early that morning, but that doesn't preclude her from vomiting the meager contents of her breakfast.

Karen holds a pink basin in front of her as she heaves repeatedly until her throat is raw and perspiration gathers on her forehead. Lisbon's hair falls into her face and the taste of bile lingers in her mouth, bitter and overpowering. The searing, sharp pain in her shoulder becomes unbearable. Tears form in her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall.

Her stomach heaves once more, although she has long since emptied it completely. The pink basin that sits precariously in her lap is completely full.

"It's alright, honey," Karen soothes once more, taking a cloth to wipe the sweat from Lisbon's face. "I'll just get the doctor to order you something for the nausea. I would give you some water, but they're going to take you up to surgery soon enough."

Karen dumps the basin in the bright red biohazard trash bin and disappears out the door.

Lisbon slumps back against the bed in defeat. Although she feels like she must be in shock, she isn't surprised. Not really. The truth was that as much as she wanted to prevent it, as much as she planned to do everything in her power to stand in his way, she has always (_always_) known that this was going to happen.

She just didn't expect for it to hurt this much.

She always thought that she would be there, that she would at least have a chance to plead with him, to beg him to see reason. (And if all else failed, at least she would get to arrest him herself. Because some days she feared no one else would.)

The tears that have been threatening to spill form once more, and this time, alone in her room except for the constant buzzing and beeping of hospital machinery, she can't fight back. She simply wipes the tears away with her good hand, shifting against her pillow as she tries to make herself comfortable.

(But she can't, she just _can't_, no matter what she tries.)

She lets herself cry as the evening news becomes _Seinfeld_ reruns, until finally her reserves are spent and her tears dry up on their own. The second episode is just beginning when Karen returns, a fresh towel and syringe in hand.

"This should make you more comfortable, dear," she says, administering the drug through the existing IV line. "Is there someone I can call to be with you while you wait?"

Lisbon looks up at the older woman, noting the concern in the nurse's eyes. Lisbon has always hated being the subject of someone else's pity, but at present, she cannot be bothered to care.

She inhales deeply, trying to steady the dizziness, the numbness that seems to have settled over her. She thinks about her team, undoubtedly knee deep in an Internal Affairs investigation at this point; her brothers, halfway across the country and often out of touch; and Jane, either already in jail or on his way there.

"No," she admits evenly, shaking her head. "There's no one."

xxx

Halfway across town, Jane sits in a holding cell staring blankly off into the distance.

Given the FBI and CBI involvement in the Red John case, he is currently being detained by local law enforcement - until someone else can come up with a better solution.

No one has been to see him in several hours, at which point he gave his statement. He did not hide anything from the police; he no longer cares what happens to him.

The reality of it has not had a chance to sink in yet, but he is certain it will. There is a sense of accomplishment that comes from seeing his plan through. What happens from here on out no longer matters.

Except.

Lisbon had been injured. The sound of that gunshot over the phone, and the seconds before he knew what had happened; he had been terrified.

No one else was supposed to get hurt, only him, and he would get his revenge. Red John was his and his alone.

Jane had spoken with her, and his concern for her temporarily drove all thoughts of Red John and revenge from his head. As soon as he knew that she would be alright, he could focus on his real purpose once more.

But no one would tell him anything more about her condition. For Lisbon, wounded could mean anything from a flesh wound to practically bleeding out and she wouldn't complain either way.

He would rest more easily if someone would get him information. Or better yet, if they would allow him to see her. Surely, she must be here by now. _Someone_ from the CBI must be.

His assumption is correct, as the door of the holding cell opens, revealing a guard Jane had seen earlier accompanied by Cho and one of the Sacramento PD detectives.

"Jane." Cho nods his head.

Jane rises from his seat. "Where's Lisbon?"

"In surgery," Cho explains bluntly. "They had to take the bullet out of her shoulder."

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of Jane's stomach. _Surgery._ That was not a part of the plan.

"Surgery?" he asks, hoping for further clarification.

Cho ignores him.

"The District Attorney has decided not to press charges," the local detective hands Jane a clear plastic bag with the few personal effects he had on his person when he was taken into custody. "It's been ruled self defense. Easy investigation - open and shut, everything checked out. Agent Cho is here to take you home."

At first, Jane thinks his ears are playing tricks on him; this is yet another outcome for which he is not prepared. But he must have heard correctly, as Cho leads him through the network of holding cells at the precinct, stopping once at the front desk to officially sign him out.

Night has fallen in the time that Jane was detained, and as a result the parking lot in front of the precinct is mostly empty. The standard issue CBI SUV sits in one of the spots closest to the building, and Jane easily picks it out, even in the darkness. He settles back in the front passenger's seat, which is far more comfortable than the metal bench in his holding cell, and allows his thoughts to drift freely, no longer under obligation to William Blake poetry and plans for cutting a monster limb from limb.

However free they may be, his thoughts mainly drift back to Lisbon and how her surgery is going; what hospital the paramedics would have taken her to, and whether or not someone has been able to get in touch with her brothers. He wonders if that is what's on Cho's mind as well, perhaps the reason that the agent appears so tense and distracted.

It is only a short drive between the local precinct and CBI Headquarters, so Jane does not have much time to mull this over before Cho passes through security, greeting the night guard with a wave as he pulls into the CBI parking lot. Without having to ask where it is parked, Cho drives up alongside Jane's Citroën and applies the brakes, bringing the car to a stop. Still he remains silent.

"Goodnight, Cho," Jane says pleasantly as he lowers himself from the car to the pavement beneath him.

Cho gives only a short nod of his head in response.

The thud of the car door closing seems to fill up the otherwise empty lot. There are a few agents' cars parked here, and Jane realizes that every single one of those cars belongs to either a member of Serious Crimes or Internal Affairs. Without a doubt, Cho is needed upstairs urgently.

Fatigue sets in now, and Jane reverts to autopilot as he climbs into his own beloved car, guiding her out of the CBI lot and onto the city streets. He arrives at his motel room, still somewhat in shock that he is returning here at all. The last time he left his room, he had been so certain he would never be coming back.

He fixes himself a cup of tea in the hopes that it will settle his nerves, and he catches sight of the LED clock by his sink, one of the few things he has out on display.

By his quick calculations, he spent just over six hours in that holding cell. Jane wonders what exactly he is supposed to do now.

This was _definitely_ not a part of the plan.

xxxxx


	2. chapter i: just a reach away

**A/N:** Hi everyone! I'm back, and now that my big bang is complete, this is probably going to be the project that takes up most of my time. Obviously this is very different than what is going on in the show right now, but that's really the point. My plans for this story have been set for a while now, and it's going to be a completely AU version of S4 (at this point), what I would have done instead. Which is why, I'm sure, I don't make the big bucks ;)

Special thank you to all of my lovely reviewers. Enjoy the first chapter! The next one shouldn't be too far behind. :-)

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xxxxx

**chapter one;**  
>just a reach away<p>

xxxxx

_Oh and this is mine, my piece_  
><em>So sad for clinging to<em>  
><em>What if I forget your face<em>  
><em>I couldn't even dream of you<em>  
>-Trespassers William, Flicker<p>

xxxxx

When Lisbon wakes up in recovery, everything is different. Gone are the bright lights and the noisy bustle of the emergency room. Instead, darkness greets her; and complete, utter silence. Not a sound can be heard - not even from the machines that surround her.

The pain in her shoulder hits first, a sharp, stabbing pain that seems worse now than it had before surgery, a sign that the painkillers are probably wearing off. She feels groggy and lightheaded from the anesthesia, so nothing else but the pain registers for a few minutes. Then she remembers the rest of her day: O'Laughlin, that phone call, and Jane. _Oh God, Jane._

It seems more like a bad dream than reality.

It's this more than the pain in her shoulder that prompts her to ring the nurses' call button that she finds attached to the railing of her hospital bed.

A nurse wearing light pink scrubs arrives promptly, carrying a clipboard in one hand and her stethoscope in the other, and looking very much like she just came on duty. She walks with a bounce in her step and can't be more than 21 or 22 years old, probably fresh out of nursing school.

"You're awake," she says with a smile, although her eyes are on the monitors as she makes notes on the chart. "I'm Adrianne. I took over for Nicole."

Lisbon, who has no recollection of anyone named Nicole, nods slowly and tries to return the young nurse's smile.

Adrianne asks all the requisite questions, the same ones Lisbon has been asked at least twenty times since arriving at the hospital late in the afternoon, eliciting only weak responses.

When Lisbon rates her pain at a four out of ten, Adrianne shakes her head as though she doesn't believe that answer and says, "Let's see if we can't get you a little more comfortable. You're just about due for more morphine anyway."

Adrianne leaves the room, promising that she'll be right back, and Lisbon is suddenly alone with her thoughts.

With only a local news headline and a few offhand remarks from her ER nurse, Lisbon still has little idea of what actually happened. At least in terms of specifics.

The big picture, however, is quite clear. While his mole - _Grace's fiancé_ - seized an opportunity to kill Hightower and anyone else who stood in his way, Red John sat at the mall and made himself known to Jane.

And Jane, well, he had fallen right into the trap.

Even in her exhausted, slightly altered mental state, she can see clearly that it had been entirely too easy. If Jane had found Red John and killed him, it was only because Red John wanted it to be that way.

It's the only explanation that makes any sense.

It has to be part of a larger plan and, just like every other time Red John crosses their radar, Jane just can't see it. For all of his brilliant observational skills and powers of perception, Red John is Patrick Jane's Achilles' heel; Jane just can't think clearly if Red John is involved. That's why the serial killer always wins.

And now Jane would be in jail, likely for the rest of his life. Maybe even facing the death penalty, depending on the circumstances. If the District Attorney claims that Jane's actions were premeditated, it would be a difficult charge to fight. Between security cameras and smart phones, the case against Jane would be incredibly strong, no matter what public sympathy might be out there.

She knows there will be supporters, advocacy groups even, who will take up Jane's cause. She won't be one of them, but if he will accept their help, it would be for the best. Some hotshot young lawyer might take him on pro bono and, at the very least, make sure Jane doesn't end up on death row.

Maybe he's better off in jail, she thinks. At least there he won't be a danger to himself anymore.

In a few years, she might be able to go visit him, but right now, the anger and disappointment is simply too overwhelming. She wanted to help him. She wanted more for him.

_What were you thinking, Jane? Did it make you feel better? Was it everything you wanted it to be?_

These silent questions run through her mind, even though she knows that they will go unasked and unanswered. Try as she might, thoughts of him will not leave her.

Soft footsteps break through the silence and break up her train of thought. Shadows loom outside the half-open door of her room for a brief moment, and suddenly Adrianne appears.

"Here you go," the young nurse announces, holding a clipboard with a syringe clipped on top of the paperwork that must be part of Lisbon's chart. Adrianne makes a few notes on the chart, and Lisbon feels the tightening of the blood pressure cuff around her uninjured arm.

Adrianne nods at whatever numbers appear on the monitor and administers the medication through the IV.

"Okay, all set," she says cheerfully; her optimism, more than her age, showing her newness to the nursing profession.

Where Karen in the emergency room had been sympathetic, she had also been decisive and skeptical; probably a thirty-year veteran of the ER, nothing phased her. Adrianne's eyes are fresh and engaged; although she is technically skilled, she is still learning. Lisbon thanks her for the medicine, and Adrianne smiles.

"You should be able to get some rest now." She walks over to the wall and inspects another monitor, pressing several buttons and making some unknown adjustments. "You'll be moved to your own room first thing in the morning. Is there a message I should leave for the nurses down there? Someone coming for you that they need to watch out for?"

"No." Lisbon shakes her head firmly, in spite of the effort it takes to complete the movement. She is getting tired of answering that question.

With a frown, Adrianne readjusts the blankets at Lisbon's bedside. "If you're sure... Well, you can always ring for me if you change your mind. I'm here until 11."

Lisbon starts to say something else as Adrianne disappears through the door and down the hallway, but the words never quite form on her lips. The medicine kicks in and she begins to tire rapidly, descending into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

But right before she loses consciousness and gives herself over to slumber, her last thoughts are of her team, and of Jane. And how nothing is ever going to be the same again.

Her tired mind cries out to him in vain.

_Oh, Jane, why couldn't I ever get through to you? Don't you realize what you've done?_

xxx

Patrick Jane does not sleep at all that night. He does not even try.

He slowly and methodically makes himself another cup of tea, and then spends the rest of the night sitting straight up in bed, facing forward with his eyes focused in on the long, jagged mark on the opposite wall. Unlike his couch, Jane's bed is lumpy, cold, and uncomfortable, cloaked only by a faded brown duvet; it is as impersonal and unwelcoming as the rest of his motel room.

His tea grows cold long before he can finish it, but he drinks it anyway, one slow sip from his mug after another. Outside the pale light of the moon casts shadows in the darkened room, tree branches blowing in the breeze, moving like ghosts across the wall.

Jane barely notices any of this.

In his mind's eye, all he can see is _that man_ - Red John - sitting across from him at the table. Red John had been so calm and composed, to the point of being unflappable, that it caught Jane off guard in more ways than one.

As Jane replays the previous afternoon over and over in his head, there are two things that stick out in his memory. The first - and most obvious - is what Red John had said about the way Charlotte and Angela smelled the night he killed them. That strawberry shampoo had been Charlotte's favorite, the only one that didn't sting her eyes in the bathtub.

The second was the sound of gunshots over Lisbon's phone.

For a few garbled, unthinkably horrible seconds, everything else had stopped. His own voice failed him (the desperate tone it adopted was no act), his carefully-constructed plans as well, until Lisbon's familiar voice carried across the line and confirmed that she was okay.

_But how is she doing now?_ he asks himself. _Cho said she was in surgery, but surely she must be out by now._

He debates calling the hospital to check on her, but decides to wait until the morning. After an unfortunate encounter with a night shift nurse in the emergency room in his late teenage years, Jane chooses to avoid contact with hospital professionals between the hours of 10 pm and 7 am if at all possible.

Lisbon is more important than incurring the wrath of various hospital staffers (_however well-deserved it may have been_, he reflects twenty years later). Yet now that he is far enough removed from the events of the day, logic once again kicks in and he can assuage his own fears.

Lisbon had been able to answer him that afternoon. She spoke with him on the phone and was able to make that last, most important call he needed from O'Laughlin's phone. Her voice had been strained and her breathing labored, but not in a way that made Jane concerned for her life. At least, not in retrospect.

Cho had been straightforward and blunt when relaying that Lisbon was in surgery, but he had not been concerned in the way that he would have been had Lisbon been in any real danger. Cho's mind had clearly been preoccupied, but with Internal Affairs. Not because of Lisbon's injuries.

Most importantly, Jane knows after surviving the ordeal with the bomb, there is no way Teresa Lisbon will let the fact that she's been shot slow her down. If anything, she'll try to get back on her feet too quickly. Anything less, and she wouldn't be Lisbon.

Still, he won't be completely reassured until he knows with certainty and not just conjecture. No matter how solid his logic, the events of the past 24 hours prove that even his best plans do not always turn out as expected. And in this instance, he cannot afford to be wrong.

Jane wonders if she even knows what has happened. He hopes not. At least, not yet.

She'll have to know soon enough, and then she'll be angry or disappointed, or perhaps both.

Jane had no choice. Red John was going to leave and retire, and Jane would never be able to make him pay for what he'd done to Charlotte and Angela. To all of those women. Red John had to be stopped.

It wasn't quite what Jane had wanted. He wanted Red John to suffer, to know the same pain he had inflicted on each of his victims, but even so, Jane had won. Red John was still dead, and Jane considers that an acceptable outcome.

For all the times he may have withheld the truth from Lisbon, on this issue he has always been abundantly clear. Then again, so has she. But she does not have to worry about this anymore. It's over, and she needs to focus on getting better. He doesn't know for certain, but he can guess that physical therapy and months of follow-up appointments with an orthopedist lie in her immediate future.

If she knows what's happened, she'll spend her time worrying about him and feeling guilty and wondering how she could have stopped him, when the truth is that she does not need to worry or feel guilty, and there is nothing she could have done that would have prevented this. It's not fate or predestination. It's just what was _always_ going to happen.

He made a promise to Angela and to Charlotte. And he could not let them down again. He could not let _himself_ down again, either.

The only problem was that in order to keep that promise, he'd had to let Lisbon down in the process. But what else was there to be done?

It would be easier if he were still under arrest. The temptation to go and see her would not be nearly as high.

Jane would have been content to live out the rest of his days in prison. There was nothing else left he needed to accomplish, and even if there were, Jane knew he could work around prison walls. He'd done it before. But prison would keep his visitors to a minimum.

In a sense, it would be his punishment for what he felt he had to do. Somewhere along the way, Jane became very fond of the team and enjoyed their company, looked forward to it. As much as he tried to remain aloof and keep them at a distance, they managed to reach him anyway. None more than Lisbon.

Staying away would have been difficult enough from the confines of a prison cell. It will be nearly impossible when left to his own devices.

Outside, the sky is still dark and cold, but the wind has died down and the shadows have stilled. There is nothing Jane can do until the morning anyway, so he is content to sit and wait, staring blankly ahead and willing away all thoughts, which have so long been of vengeance and blood that the nothingness is a sweet relief.

He is still sitting in the same position when LaRoche calls that afternoon to request that he appear for Internal Affairs.

xxxxx


	3. chapter ii: a shot in the dark

**A/N**: Alright, here's the next part! I really wanted to get this chapter up tonight before the episode airs on the east coast, so I made it just under the wire but it still counts. This story remains true to canon through the S3 finale, so whatever happens or doesn't happen on screen from here on out will not be reflected in this. Or in other words, everything that follows is a reflection on my ideas and interpretations, or on theories I have bounced off of friends.

As promised, I should be able to update this story on a fairly regular basis. Thank you for reading!

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xxxxx

**chapter two;**  
>a shot in the dark<p>

xxxxx

_Regrets collect like old friends_  
><em>Here to relive your darkest moments<em>  
><em>I can see no way, I can see no way<em>  
><em>And all of the ghouls come out to play<em>  
>-Florence + the Machine, Shake It Out<p>

xxxxx

Anyone who says that a good night's sleep will make everything look better in the morning has obviously never considered what it might feel like to wake up as Lisbon does the morning after Jane shoots a man in cold blood in front of hundreds of witnesses.

Everything does not look better; in fact, everything appears that much _worse_for her having the time to dwell on it.

She does not turn on the news or look at the morning papers. She's far too practical to entertain hopes or fantasies that this has all been some kind of horrible nightmare, but that does not mean she wants to think about it either.

No fewer than three doctors stop by over the course of the early morning hours, each poking and prodding and examining her in turn. Each one comes to the same conclusion: she was extremely lucky. A centimeter in either direction and the damage would likely have been irreparable. Perhaps even fatal.

Instead, with a few months of physical therapy, there is a good chance she will regain almost full mobility in her shoulder. They throw out percentages from 93 to 98, although none of those are what she truly wants to hear. The percentage doesn't matter nearly as much as her ability to hold and fire a weapon, and to pass her field certification.

Once again, the doctors tell her that she's lucky, but it isn't her own luck that worries her.

Not long after the third doctor - this time a general internal medicine physician and the one who is actually overseeing her hospital stay - departs, an unexpected but extremely welcome face appears in the doorway.

"Hey, Teresa."

Her eyes go wide as she practically does a double take while lying supine in her hospital bed.

"Chris?"

The man standing in her doorway looks familiar and sounds familiar, but for all she knows he could be merely a trick of the light, a delusion brought about by her pain medication.

She does not believe her own eyes until that familiar voice bellows once more in greeting.

"Oh, very good. The prodigal older sister knows me after all!"

Her youngest brother laughs good-naturedly as he steps through the door and into full view, all six feet and two inches of him. His physical appearance belies his congenial tone however; his unshaven face and unkempt mop of brown hair frame the concern shining through hazel eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Lisbon takes great effort so as not to appear strained as she sits up in bed, ignoring how the exertion turns what had been a dull ache in her shoulder into a throbbing pain.

"Is that any way to greet the brother who traveled all night just to see for himself that you're alright?"

Well, that explains the unkempt hair and unshaven face; he must have taken the red eye from O'Hare.

Chris crosses the room in three long strides and bends over to kiss the top of her head.

"I'm sorry." She has enough sense left in her to offer him a regretful smile. "I just wasn't expecting you is all. I was going to call you tonight to let you know what had happened, all of you." When Chris raises an eyebrow at this, it's almost like looking in the mirror; Lisbon does her best to ignore it and with a heavy sigh explains, "It's just... The last few days have been a little out of control."

"A little out of control?" For the first time, all pretenses of congeniality are dropped in favor of hints at the fiery Lisbon temper. Of the four of them, Chris had always been the best at keeping it tightly under wraps, so to see it evident in his features is a warning. "You want to tell me what's really going on here?"

"That's the thing. I don't really know."

Her admission is reluctant at best, but once she says the words out loud she cannot take them back.

His face softens once again, and she is reminded of the little boy who used to crawl into her bed late at night and ask her to tell him stories, the one who begged her to teach him how to slide into second base. Christopher Lisbon, nearly eight years her junior, had been the one who remembered only after and not before; he had always trusted her implicitly to keep them all safe.

She hadn't done any better of a job with her brothers than she had with her team, she thinks bitterly.

"Well, then start with what you do know," Chris encourages patiently. At least in that regard, he remains as he always was, remarkably unlike his three elder siblings.

"It was the Red John case," she begins, attempting to avoid the pointed look she gets at the mere mention of Red John. Unsure of what Chris has or has not been told, or seen in the news for that matter, she sighs. He may know more than she does at this point. "There was a mole at the CBI, and we thought we had uncovered his identity. We were wrong."

Her brother's concern is etched plainly in the creases in his forehead. "Go on," he urges gently.

"By the time we realized we were wrong, it was too late. He shot me, and then Jane shot Red John." She picks at a loose thread on her blanket as she says this; her voice cool and detached in a way she herself is not.

Not right now, while the wound is still so raw and fresh.

"I don't..." her breath catches, breaking her composure just enough that her precise, even tone falters. "I can't talk about it."

A forlorn look crosses his face as the little boy who once looked to her for reassurance is searching desperately to offer his sister the same comfort. There is nothing he can do, but his efforts do not go unnoticed.

"I'm sorry, Chris."

And she is.

For this, and for everything.

"I'll be fine." Lisbon sits up as straight as she can, but the effort drains her. Balling her hands into fists, she takes short, heaving breaths through the sudden wave of pain.

Just as Chris asks if he should go get a nurse, the worst of the pain passes and she reiterates, "I'll be fine. You shouldn't have come."

"Right." He eyes her incredulously. "Let's get one thing straight right away. I should _absolutely_have come. If James and Tommy could have come too, they would have. But for now, I'm all you've got."

It goes unspoken between them that this is probably a best case scenario anyway, as the inclusion of James and Tommy would undoubtedly spark the onset of World War III and that is the last thing she needs at this particular moment.

"One of your agents, Cho, called James late last night, and he called Tommy and me. We talked about all coming out, but I could get the last flight out so we decided I would come and we would figure out the rest later. You always took care of us, Teresa. Let us do this for you. At least for a few days."

Lisbon nods in acceptance, only a little shocked at the ease at which she agrees to her brother's request.

In truth, she is grateful for the support. And for the company.

For as long as Chris is here with her, she doesn't have to think about the things she'd rather not have to think about at all.

Not work. Not serial killers. Not countless nagging doubts and lingering questions.

Not even Patrick Jane.

xxx

The CBI stands exactly as it had seventy two hours before.

Jane isn't sure why he had been expecting this to be different somehow, but he finds the definitive lack of change unnerving. Except for a slight increase in the buzz around the water cooler, for the rest of the building today is business as usual.

Appearing in front of Internal Affairs is far more informal than it sounded on the telephone just an hour earlier. Jane meets with LaRoche one on one in LaRoche's office instead of in front of a committee and a large conference room, which would only have been intended to put him off balance and make him uncomfortable.

Jane sits in one of the comfortable chairs across from LaRoche's desk while the head of Internal Affairs takes notes as though the tape recorder that has been running since before Jane even arrived would somehow not be sufficient.

"And then you shot the man - Red John - three times, just like that?" LaRoche verifies with his head still focused down at his notes. LaRoche looks up and fixes Jane with his typical unsteady gaze.

It is disconcerting, in more ways than one.

Jane nods. "Yes."

Three shots, and it had all been over.

_Your wife was very clean. She smelled like coal tar soap and lavender. Your daughter smelled like sweat, and strawberries and cream._

If only it had been that simple.

Blood rushes to his ears and his throat is dry and parched. LaRoche poses another question; Jane can only garble a response.

"Excuse me?" LaRoche's voice cuts sharply, bringing Jane back to himself enough to ask his superior to repeat the question.

"I said, is there anything else you would like to add?"

_Plenty more_, he almost says.

He holds his tongue instead.

"Alright, then you are free to go." LaRoche's proclamation comes without any particular confidence, as though he himself can't believe what he is saying.

Jane can hardly blame him. The entire situation is bizarre. He should be in jail, or at least in a holding cell waiting to be transferred to an appropriate facility. He should be brought in front of a judge and denied bail. It was to be his penance; he neither earned nor deserved this reprieve.

Apparently, LaRoche had not finished yet. He pauses the tape recorder and ejects the tape.

"It was a fairly straightforward investigation," he adds by way of explanation. More trying to rationalize this strange chain of events to himself than to Jane. "Red John had four weapons on him, and the security footage shows that he threatened you. Still, the DA's office is not pleased that you were carrying an unregistered weapon. If this gets out..." LaRoche's eyes cross, an unnatural occurrence even for him. "Well, let's just say that it's best if it never gets out."

"Yes, sir." Jane's response comes automatically; it is only half in jest.

LaRoche gestures with one hand, waving Jane out of the office. "I have been told that a suspension would look too suspicious -" (and from the look of displeasure on his face, LaRoche is not taking that news well) "- so a vacation will have to suffice. Two weeks, mandatory. We will see you back in this office two weeks from Monday at 8:00 am sharp."

Jane frowns, but although he is signaled to do so, he does not leave. These constant changes in all of his plans are throwing him for a loop, and he does not like that in the slightest.

"Jane."

LaRoche's prompting is insistent, but Jane's thoughts have drifted elsewhere. In the back of his mind, a thread has begun to form, and like all of his thoughts, once it takes hold, it will not let go until it has been satisfied. Through all of this chaos and confusion, a single question has come to the forefront.

"The man -" Jane asks suddenly, his mind running too far ahead for him to be able to hold himself back. If he were any other man, he would be fidgeting now, from nerves or exhaustion or both, but Patrick Jane is not any other man, and one of his greatest strengths is his ability to mask weakness. He stills himself.

Jane doesn't know why, in the face of all the other questions swirling about in his head, this is the one that suddenly matters, but in the heat of the moment, it is the most important thing in the world that he has this one answer.

"Red John. What was his name?"

"We're still working on that." LaRoche replies, noncommittal. "There's a lot we're still working out."

"I see," Jane says, but he isn't sure that he does.

He isn't sure that LaRoche does either.

"Monday in two weeks. I expect to see you at 8:00 am sharp," LaRoche repeats with finality.

Jane does not need to be told twice. He nods in assent and takes his leave.

xxx

The Serious Crimes bullpen is conspicuously empty upon Jane's arrival.

This is the only sign throughout all of CBI Headquarters that something is off today, and the realization disappoints him.

He had been hoping that here at least he would not have to be alone.

However he failed to take into account the fact that one team member was injured and in the hospital, another had just shot her fiancé, and the third was probably with the second. That left only Cho, who had undoubtedly been at the office until all hours and was likely taking a well-deserved (and possibly mandatory) day off.

The muffled sound of a phone ringing - not just any phone, but Lisbon's office phone - gives Jane pause.

He had not thought to look in her office; the very idea of invading her space seems, under the circumstances, positively ghoulish and entirely inappropriate. Although on any other day, invading Lisbon's personal space is among his very favorite hobbies, right up there with drinking tea, lounging on his couch, and plotting against serial killers.

Someone answers the phone on the second ring. Jane is not as alone in the bullpen as he originally thought.

Cho stands stiffly behind Lisbon's desk, appearing as uncomfortable as he ever has for the entire duration of the call, which lasts no longer than two minutes.

Jane is still debating whether to approach Cho or not when Cho looks up and notices him, taking away his choice. Torn between his desire to speak with Cho and his discomfort in seeing anyone else in Lisbon's office, Jane takes extreme care as he crosses the bullpen at a slow, leisurely pace.

"Jane." Cho acknowledges bluntly.

"Is everyone else taking the day off?" Jane asks lightly.

Standard interview technique may advise against asking questions to which you already know the answer, but Jane has never put much stock in standard interview techniques anyway. He asks questions not so much to hear the answers, but to see how someone responds.

And someone who does not know Kimball Cho well might not notice the slight frown that crosses his brow for a fraction of a second, but Jane does.

"Van Pelt is on temporary suspension pending IA review. Rigsby wasn't feeling well and took the day off. Hightower is still being questioned by the FBI."

Cho's omission of Lisbon is deliberate, and it bothers Jane more than he cares to admit. He stubbornly does not want to be the one to ask, but when Cho does not volunteer the information freely, Jane's resolve weakens so rapidly that his inquiry leaves his lips before he can give it a second thought, instinct taking over.

"What about Lisbon?"

Cho shrugs. "She's still at the hospital."

This is not the kind of information Jane is looking for. Cho is not angry, but he does appear mistrustful.

This hurts, when Jane had not been expecting it to matter at all.

He presses on. "How is she doing?"

"She was shot." Cho's deadpan can be downright eerie at times. The agent sighs, either unwilling or unprepared for a fight, and after a moment's consideration, relents; the victory for Jane is a hollow one.

"The surgeons removed the bullet, and with physical therapy, she should regain almost full mobility in her shoulder. They're hoping to release her from the hospital in two days if she doesn't have any complications. I don't know when she'll be back at work."

Jane swallows, trying to take all of this in. "So you've spoken with her?"

"No." Cho shakes his head only once. "Her brother."

Jane almost asks which brother, but logic tells him there is only one it could be. The oldest, James, has three small children of his own and lives all the way in Washington, D.C. Tommy lives the closest, but he could never get time off of work at such short notice. That leaves Christopher, the youngest and the only one of the four Lisbon siblings to remain in their hometown of Chicago.

Relief comes with the knowledge that at least she's not alone.

"Jane," Cho warns in the same tone he reserves for particularly uncooperative suspects.

"What?" Jane frowns, uncomfortable under Cho's insistent stare.

"Don't do... whatever it is you're thinking of doing?"

But Jane isn't thinking of doing anything. At least, not yet.

What is it that Cho knows?

Jane looks at his colleague with his question written across his face.

Cho exhales pointedly. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"

Jane turns to walk away; as he reaches the door, Cho calls out one final warning.

"And whatever you do," he commands. "Do not go and see her."

Jane does not say anything. Where Teresa Lisbon is concerned, he has no intentions of making a promise he will never be able to keep.

xxxxx


End file.
